


it was only a kiss (it was only a kiss)

by hannybee



Series: the gays are here and boy are they chaotic [2]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fantasy AU, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Angst, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2019-10-04 03:51:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17297225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannybee/pseuds/hannybee
Summary: Chan is just a college student. A depressed one, perhaps, but a college student nonetheless.But when he kisses the person he hates most, his world is flipped upside-down and now his classes are the least of his worries.





	1. the wrong foot

Maybe if Chan stared at the screen long enough, the right notes would appear.  
The whirring of his laptop filled the dorm room as he pushed it to its limits, straining its already tight capacity with his music software. It was too late to work at the studios; the small digital clock on his screen told him it was 3:46 am, and he didn’t want to fall asleep in the booth like last time.

 _Ugh_.

Why did song writing have to be so hard? In his frustration, Chan slammed his hands palm first into his keyboard. His keys suffered the brunt of his frustration as he mashed and pressed them, weakly protesting. His laptop grew hot on his lap, heating the skin beneath his basketball shorts. It wheezed and heaved before, with an air of finality, the screen froze.  
_Fuck_.  
“No, no no no.”  
With a sputter and a disappointed jingle the screen went black. He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, letting out a hefty sigh. That was the entirety of his midterm project down the drain. With that realization came the frustration that he knew his laptop couldn’t bear. So with a groan, he slipped out of bed, slipped on his slippers, and slipped out of the dorm room, door clicking shut behind him.

He made his way to the elevators, taking them to the top floor. His long strides took him down the hallway to the roof access door that was normally locked. But as the oldest on his floor, the supers had entrusted him a key. A poor decision on their part, but they didn’t need to know that.

Practiced steps on the slippery fire escape led him to the roof and Chan felt himself breathe for the first time in a long time. The night air chilled his feverish skin and slowed his thoughts like fish caught in a freezing river. It smelled like rain and the concrete of the rooftop was still damp from the morning showers. Chan could barely feel the cold, even in his shorts and thin shirt. He didn’t bother lingering to look around; he moved to his usual spot on the roof, picking his way through the trash left there by the other people that were last there.

With a practiced grace, Chan swung his legs over the lip of the building, letting his feet dangle in the air. He wouldn’t be able to tell you how many times he’d thought about just, jumping, though he knew for sure tonight wasn’t the night. It didn’t feel right.

In the deep blue sky, a speckling of stars dotted the sky, few and far between due to the light pollution. Chris breathed in the night air, eyes fixating on the moon. He’d always loved to pretend that the moon could hear him, and that it was just listening patiently to every story he’d told. Even in moments like this where he was assuredly alone, he still liked to feel like someone cared. But sometimes even the moon disappeared and Chan was left solely alone with his thoughts.

Tonight though, it was just about his dumbass making his music program crash.

For a moment Chan’s mind fell silent, a numbing static filling the space in his skull. With a distant gaze he watched as his breath curled away from his lips in swaths of white, dispersing into the clouds that hung low over his head.

Chan swept his hair backwards, sighing inwardly. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously. He probably didn’t have much time before it started raining. He pressed his heels against the stucco of the building, lowering his gaze to the concrete five stories down. It was a dizzying height and the sense of vertigo Chan got was worth it; it was better not looking before he leapt. A light in an apartment a few floors down flipped off and Chan pulled his legs back up onto the roof.

He should start on his project.

Again.

 

-

_Beep._

__  
Beep.  
Beep.

Chan groaned, reluctantly removing an arm from the comfort of his sheets to turn the blaring alarm off, cursing the past version of himself that picked out a seven AM class. Not to mention, his escapade the night before had left him with a whopping hour of sleep, and a congested nose that Chan prayed didn’t result in another cold.

He swung his legs out of bed, forcing himself to start the routine that faced him every day of the week. Socks padded the same steps they walked every day to the bathroom, where Chan brushed his teeth, and put on deodorant, managing to muss his hair up into something passable. Something clean was thrown on in place of the basketball shorts, and Chan was leaving the dorm with his bag swung over a shoulder.

The air outside was chilly and unwelcoming and just, dull which accurately reflected how Chan was feeling at the moment. No one was out on the branching side walks; apparently everyone else was smarter than Chan, and hadn’t taken a class at an ungodly hour. His ratty sneakers sloshed through the puddles without a second thought, and it wasn’t until the doors to the music building were in front of him did he realize he’d forgotten to eat. Again. Did he even remember to go grocery shopping this weekend? There was no time to ponder that however; if he didn’t move now he’d be late to class. Not that he particularly minded being late: it was just the awkward stares tardiness drew that made him reconsider those extra five minutes of sleep.

The warmth of the music building assuaged some of the cold that hung over his shoulders, and as he hung a left, past the receptionist that had stopped greeting him a long time ago, Chan tried to remember if he’d had homework. He couldn’t recall any but his memory was anything but flawless. Plus there was the fact that he couldn’t muster enough motivation to scour his mind that hard.

He pushed open the classroom door, sliding into his seat without a word to anyone in the room. He pulled out a pen and contemplated to himself whether he really felt like listening today. 'I mean, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he missed one lecture. Plus, the notes were already online' , he reasoned, like there was any debate to begin with; there was no way he was gonna stay awake through the entire class. As his professor's droning voice began to teach, something about scale progressions and the circle of fifths, Chan began to drift off into the palm of his hand, that hour of sleep making itself known.

When Chan awoke, people were packing up, the professor calling out a reminder for homework due next week.  
Chan probably wasn’t gonna do it.  
But, if he was going to be positive, like he promised himself he’d be, maybe he would do it.  
In between all of the other classes he had to juggle work for.  
Speaking of which, he had another class to go to, though thankfully it was one that didn’t take him into the cold.  
When he left the classroom (with a small smile to the professor, in apologies for sleeping through the entire class), the halls had more students milling about, all of them looking about as tired as he felt.

He picked up the pace, a fleeting smile plucking at the corner of his lips. The hallway he took branched off, away from the majority of the people, winding past the courtyard until he was unceremoniously dumped into the locker room.

He slid in between the rows of lockers until he arrived at his locker, and with the most energy he’d had all day, Chan changed into his “workout” clothes. They were just a pair of sweatpants and a worn tee-shirt but by the time he’d thrown on, he had summoned all the motivation he had, no matter how little that might be.

The mirror lined walls and the distant smell of perspiration felt like home to Chan. It was the only place where he could disappear into his mind and just let everything go, and just dance, with zero distractions.

Well.

One distraction.

That distraction happened to take the form of the class’ star dancer Lee Minho, who was currently bent over the ballet bar, stretching in a way only Minho seemed to be able to achieve. Chan considered himself a good dancer, even great at times, but Minho was something entirely else. Even at his age, a buzz followed him wherever he went, and his looks didn’t quite help the popularity that hung around him like a cloud. Even his popularity was unique to him. He didn’t have hoards of friends to Chan’s knowledge; he just exuded a presence that made him virtually untouchable.  
Chan absolutely despised it.

It didn’t seem like the other really deserved the praise he heralded. Sure, he was a stellar dancer with looks gods would be jealous of and thighs that could crush a man, but what else about him really made him that special? Chan didn’t buy it.

So it was especially unfair when his mind decided to fixate on Lee fucking Minho of everyone.

He slid into his usual spot in the corner, half-assing some stretches as he waited for the class to start. Eventually his constantly disgruntled-looking teacher entered the room and with the swiftness of exhausted college students, the class assembled in position, with who else but Minho in the center. Chan was also in the front, all though that was only because he was one of the few who could dance next to Minho and not look awful.

“Run through it. Let’s go,” the teacher barked, siting against a mirror with the same mug he used everyday.

They ran through the routine once, slowly, just trying to make sure that all of the steps were still ingrained in their collective subconscious. But of course, Minho went harder than anyone else, throwing himself into the choreo, even though it was just a matter of time before-

“Full out,” came the anxiously awaited command and the class let out a collective groan as the repositioned to start over. He could see Minho tensing in his peripherals, and he quickly did the same, pressing the heels of his sneakers into the hardwood as he waited for the music to start again. He wasn’t going to be outshone.

The thrumming base filled the room and Chan dove in.

  
The room was spinning when the class finally ended. He dimly registered the cool feeling of the mirror against his back as he slid to the floor, struggling to catch his breath. As he wheezed, he cursed himself for not bringing water. His muscles burned and ached, protesting to any bit of movement. He pressed the palms of his hands against his temple, trying to will away the feverish exhaustion that wracked his body.

“That was a rough one, huh?” Came the annoyingly energetic voice of Minho. Chan looked up at the other, wincing at the brightness of the lights behind him.

“Yeah,” Chan managed. “It was bad.” He offered no other commentary on the matter, resting his forehead on his knees and praying the other would leave him alone.

His prayers were answered in the worst possible way.

They arrived in the form of the annoyingly fashionable, enigmatic guy that Chan knew just from the sight of the newest shoes that walked up to Minho. The pair turned away from Chan to talk, and Chan took that opportunity to look up from the floor. A quick glance at the clock told him that he still had several minutes of Lee Minho’s presence to endure until the locker room was unlocked.

A glance at the guy Minho was talking to told him he still wasn’t slacking on his fashion game. The hottest shoes paired with classic tube socks with the red and blue stripes, baggy shorts with a plain looking red shirt tucked in. A yellow messenger bag hung against his hip, and the orange hair only completed the look, with its shaggy, stylish yet effortless look.

Han Jisung stood there, in all his fashionable glory, lips pulled into his iconic toothy grin. With a confidence only achieved with practice, Jisung pressed a water bottle into Minho’s hands, pairing it with a swift kiss to the cheek.

  
The worst part of Lee Minho?

He had a boyfriend.

 

 


	2. party time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess whos back fuckers

_No_ , Chan wasn’t jealous. That would be ridiculous. The soft smiles that the pair traded back and first absolutely did not make his heart ache in his rib cage. He turned his gaze back towards the scuffed floor, hoping that he wouldn’t have to talk to the couple before he could escape into the locker room. 

It seemed like luck wasn’t on his side today, however.  

“Hey, Chan!” This time it was  Jisung  who had interrupted his maladaptive staring, his bright voice cutting through the low hum of the chatter in the room. Chan pulled his head up from his knees, looking up at him through strands of his bleached hair. 

“What’s up?” Chan tried to sound uninterested, unbothered, and uncaring, but either  Jisung  was oblivious or just didn’t care because he sat down with a  ‘thump’,  beside him. 

“I’m having a party this weekend. We’ve got the whole art building to ourselves.” Chan quirked an eyebrow at that; the art department was notorious for its wild and over the top parties, but he’d never been even close to being invited to one.  Jisung  grinned, that kilowatt smile that had Chan’s heart melting, saying, “You should come.” 

Chan was torn. On one hand, it would be impossible to avoid the couple the entire party, and he still hadn’t sorted his (ugh)  _ feelings  _ towards them into anything tangible. On the other hand, Chan needed to get to fucked up. Immediately.

He managed a smile, one that probably looked strained  in  anyone’s eyes. “I’ll be there.” 

Jisung  managed to smile even wider and already Chan was regretting his decision.  Jisung  stood and clasped his hands together eagerly. “We’ll see you then!” With a small wave from Minho, the couple finally moved away from Chan, and he could hear them inviting other people to the party. That fact both soothed his nerves and agitated something in him. They weren’t just inviting him; they were inviting everyone and Chan happened to be the first stop. It wasn’t a surprise, really. The art department parties were known by everyone and anyone, and if anyone was going to spread the word, Han  Jisung  was your man. 

Chan let his head fall onto his kneecaps, concentrating on his breathing like their coach so often emphasized. After minutes and minutes of blocking out the idle chatter of the dance studio, the locker room door popped open with a click and a croak from the door’s hinges. Chan was the first one through the door, quick-stepping his way to his locker where he threw on what clothes he had brought with him. He thanked his past self for at least  having the forethought to not have any classes after this. If he did, he’d have to use the showers. Ugh, just the thought of them made him shudder. 

Instead he slung his bag over his not-so-great-smelling shoulder, and headed out of the locker room, gone as quickly as he’d entered. His get in, get out method also had absolutely nothing to do with Lee Minho changing out of his clothes in the aisle across from him. 

No-siree . 

Chan spent the remainder of the week, desperately avoiding the couple and the entire arts building itself. The longer he could put off actually talking to either of them, the better. Not to say it was particularly hard by any means.  Jisung , being a fashion major, meant that Chan didn’t have to see him very often. But when they did happen to be in the same class: for example, their Sound Production course, boy did he  ever  see him. The other seemed to run on coffee exclusively ;  he rarely stopped moving. From the few rows back in which Chan sat, he could see the constant leg-bouncing, pen-tapping, nail-biting energy Jisung seemed to be infected with. 

But without fail, every day, Chan would see  Jisung  come into the classroom, fashionably late as usual, iced-americano in hand, dressed to the absolute T in brands Chan didn’t recognize. He never wore the same outfit twice. And he never stuck to the same vibe for too long. The day he crept in with a black button up tucked into black skinny jeans with a chain hanging from his hip will forever remain etched in Chan’s mind. 

Minho on the other hand, was a lot harder to avoid. They didn’t share any classes (thank god, lord knows how Chan would’ve survived), but being they had similar majors, Chan saw Minho in the halls of the music building more often than he’d like to see the other in his entire life. But the worst part about it was that Minho had the indecency to actually go out of his way to talk to him. Chan was just trying to walk to his absolutely essential class on the fundamentals of percussion when the other was suddenly in front of him, his mischievous smile making Chan freeze  midstep . 

“Hey Chan! You still on for this weekend?”

Chan had taken a moment to gather himself and remember what  _ was  _ happening this weekend, before responding. “Oh yeah, of course!” 

Minho beamed and Chan knew that any hope of flaking on the party was crumbling with every passing second in the presence of that smile. Minho had opened his mouth to say something but someone called his name down the hall and his mouth fell shut in another smile. “I’ll see you, then.” He left Chan standing there with a shoulder touch and a backwards glance. 

The other seemed to make a habit of this, stopping Chan  every time  to ask him about his day, his classes, everything and anything. The anxious bitch in Chan couldn’t help but think of all the ways this party was going to go wrong. Maybe it was a Carrie scenario, and Chan was go ing to  get doused in pig’s blood just when things  started going  well. Maybe Minho and  Jisung  secretly just sympathized with him and couldn’t care less about him otherwise.

Unfortunately for Chan, his shit idiot brain thought that this made it all the more reason to go to the party. The school work had been steadily increasing and being constantly aware of Minho and  Jisung’s  locations at all times was also not doing wonders for his mental health. He wanted to get fucked up and this party would be the perfect place to do it. 

It seemed that his saving grace came in the form of kicking himself in the ass to make his brain shut up, and  Woojin . 

The elder lived one floor up from Chan, one of the few students with a two-bed dorm all to himself, much like Chan did, actually. He wasn’t sure what lottery he’d run to not end up without roommates, and the extra space to put a studio in, but sometimes a part of him actually wanted a roommate. At night, it always felt too quiet and too empty, far too hollow.  

Thankfully,  Woojin  wasn’t letting Chan chicken out now. 

“You’re _sure_ you can’t come?” Chan probably sounded like he was whining. Because he was. 

“I’m positive. I have vocal exam tomorrow and I don’t think that getting plastered is going to help.” 

Chan groaned but he understood. 

“Now, sit still before I make you bald.”  Woojin  surely was joking but Chan wasn’t about to risk it. There was a towel tied around Chan’s neck like a backwards cape, and tufts of bleached blond hair had been falling down in front of his face for the past ten minutes. 

“I still don’t see why this is necessary.” 

“Chan, you looked like an overgrown poodle —  ” 

Chan stuck his tongue out indignantly. 

“ —  and besides, it's just a trim, nothing big.” 

Chan was skeptical. 

A few minutes of hair falling in Chan’s eyes later,  Woojin  finally stepped away, admiring his  handywork . He whistled lowly. “If they weren’t already whipped for you, they are now.” 

Chan rolled his eyes. “ Wooj , they’re not...” 

His voice died in his throat as  Woojin  handed him a hand mirror. He looked... Good.  Woojin  had buzzed down the sides of his hair, the top of his hair trimmed back into something that wouldn’t hang in front of his eyes while leaving the back of it somewhat longer. 

“Like I said,”  Woojin  said, eyes sparkling. “They are now. Oh, wait  —”  Woojin  held up the clippers again. “ —  finishing touch, close your eyes.” 

“I already look fine— ” 

“Close them.” 

Knowing he was fighting a losing battle, Chan relented and shut his eyes, once again at  Woojin’s  mercy. There was a pause and Chan braced himself. But, instead of trimming something into his hairline, he felt a jab at his eyebrow. 

His eyes shot open. “You _didn’t_ fucking —” 

“And what if I did?”  Woojin  handed him the mirror back and Chan saw exactly what he was expecting. 

Woojin  had cut a slit into his eyebrow. 

Chan groaned, rubbing over his eyebrow as if that would help the hair grow back any faster. “I told you I did this in the sixth grade and I was never going to— “

“— never going to do it again, blah blah blah. You’ll thank me later.”

“I will do no such thing,” Chan retorted.

Woojin  laughed and dumped the supplies back into Chan’s drawer where they would likely remain until Chan needed another last second makeover. “Whatever loser. Live a little. Not all of us were invited to the art building party.” He laid a hand on Chan’s shoulder. “Have a little fun. At least for me.” 

Chan nodded, in earnest, before shrugging the other’s hand off of his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Get out before  Jeongin  comes looking for you.” 

Woojin  laughed but still picked up his bag he’d left against the door frame. “You love his company.” 

“And I love yours, but I still want you to leave.” 

Woojin  shoved him, no real force behind it, and headed for the door. He waved and said, without looking back. “Have fun, Chan. Make them see what they’re missing.” With that resounding advice,  Woojin  left the apartment, and once again Chan felt all too alone. 

But there was no time for depression now, he’s got an outfit to plan. 

An hour later found him with his drawers’ contents spread all over his bed room, with Chan himself occupying the full-length mirror propped against the wall. 

He had chosen something casual, but not too casual; he wanted to look like he had actually put an effort in to the look, but not, like, too much effort. He was wearing a clean (yes, he’d checked this time) white shirt, tucked into the waistband of black jeans. He was wearing his most daring jacket; a leather jacket with metal studs sewn into the shoulders. Chan had even gone out of his way to dig his combat boots out of his closet, adding to the look with a myriad of bracelets left over from his  emo  phase. For god’s sake, he’d even put a chain on his jeans and put on the rings he hadn’t worn since  high - school . It was a miracle they still fit. 

To finish the look, he’d followed  Woojin’s  advice and he’d pulled out that old makeup pallet he’d stolen from his sister when he moved out and filled in his brows, resisting the urge to cover up the slit. He had dusted a reddish-brown color on the outer corner of his eye and called it  quits then.

All that to say, Chan looked good. He looked like he’d rolled out of some 90s action movie and he wasn’t hating it.

Nervously, he smoothed his hands over the front of his jacket, checking the time.  Jisung  hadn’t specified one, but thankfully Minho had mentioned one in one of their daily hallway encounters. 11:30. Easy-peasy. 

Of course, Chan wasn’t going to arrive as soon as the party started. Not only would that be lame, but he figured that the later he got there, the more likely it was that the couple in question was busy with something else. 

He fixed his gaze on himself one last time. He was going to get fucked up. That’s it.

He ran a hand through his hair, making sure it was still exactly right. 

He got this.

He absolutely did _not_ have this. 

He was standing outside the art building; he hadn’t even made it inside. The building was thrumming with loud music that Chan could feel in his ribcage, even from outside. Students were milling around, some looking more out of it than others. His brain was telling him to run, to run back to his dorm and just kick it with some  cheeto  puffs but he had one goal going into this and he wasn’t about to turn back now. He kicked the toe of his boots against the concrete before walking up to the first people he saw with drinks. 

“Hey,” he said over the bass, catching their attention with a wave, “where’s the bar?”

As they turned to face it, he realized that he sort of recognized them. They were... Kevin and Jacob respectively, from his lyricism class. Kevin was the one to respond, pointing up the concrete stairs at the entrance to the art building. 

“Second floor, hang a right to the warehouse and you can’t miss it.” 

Chan nodded, offering a smile. “Thanks man.” 

Chan left the pair alone to their conversation, taking the entrance steps two at a time. With a word in prayer, he wrapped his hand around the handle and pulled the door open. 

Immediately he was overwhelmed by the noise. If he had thought it was loud outside, it was even louder in here. The music was magnified and there was the heavy drone of chatter hanging low in the air. The smell of beer and weed was practically palpable and Chan had to resist the immediate urge to leave just as soon as he’d arrived. But instead, he buckled down, cracking his knuckles. He’d had enough of running away. 

He began his trek through the seemingly endless sea of people towards the stairs, thankful that this building wasn’t structured like the music building. Rather than walls creating narrow passageways, the first floor of the art building was largely open. He caught a glimpse of a sewing machine pressed up against the window, red cups placed on it precariously. As he gently pushed people aside, he saw skeins of fabric rolled across the  floor, already tarnished with footprints and spilt beer. Instinctively, he winced. The teachers were not going to be happy about that. 

Eventually, Chan broke free of the crowd, coming up at the base of the stairs. Couples seemed to have claimed the stairwell as their own, multiple languidly making out against the banister. Keeping his eyes low and murmuring apologies to the people he bumped into, Chan climbed the stairs to the second floor.

The second floor seemed to be a completely different party. Where the ground floor was entirely mingling, albeit loud mingling, the second seemed to have cranked the party to eleven. He was nearly toppled by two plastered looking jocks booking it towards the stairs, four beers on each of them. Thankfully, he managed to step aside, finding the rest of the floor just as rambunctious. He stuck his head into the first doorway to his write and felt himself relax a little bit. Now, this was the kind of party he could handle. 

He assumed this was the “warehouse” Kevin had mentioned from the mannequins and cardboard boxes around the perimeter of the room. Chan could feel himself getting used to the constant hum of music in his body. In fact, it seemed he’d stumbled upon the source of the music. 

Set up at one end of the room was a DJ station, the large speakers on either side of it clearly the source of the music. Colored lights hung above the turntable, casting the dance floor in multicolored light. It seemed like the party was certainly in full swing; absolutely no one was sober. 

Except for Chan.

With more energy than Chan had had this entire month, Chan strode across the room for the bar, of course careful to apologize to anyone he may have run into, because just because he had a mission didn’t mean he couldn’t be polite. 

He made it to the bar and slid onto a stool that he was pretty sure belonged to a pottery class. He waved down the bartender and motioned for a beer and turned away. He wasn’t planning on being picky tonight. He just wanted something do drink. The bartender slid him the beer in a plastic cup and Chan took a sip. He winced but swallowed it down. It was lukewarm and flat but it was doing its job. It warmed the base of his ribcage and quicker than he’d like to admit, he was already flagging the bartender down for a second. 

His eyes traced over the crowd, taking in the wobbling dancers highlighted by the light of the full moon. 

For a while he stayed at that bar, nursing drink after drink as he stared off at nothing in particular. 

The air in the room felt stale; it smelled of cologne and spilled beer and it was certainly not helping the new dizziness Chan felt, just behind his eyes.  Squaring his jaw , Chan slid off of his stool and began  headed to the dance floor .  He needed fresh air before the smell of sweat and cheap booze killed him.

Eventually, after another round of apologies, now s lightly s lurred, Chan made it to the door way and into the hallway, heading away from the doorway to get away from the noise. He leaned against the wall, eyeing the stairwell. Some part of him was concerned about how he looked right now, drunk and a mess, but the majority of him was just trying to figure out how the hell to get outside  without tripping over his feet.

“Chan?” 

His brows furrowed; he knew that voice. He lifted his head and suddenly he felt a lot more sober. Minho was standing there, cup in hand, looking at Chan like Chan was about to vomit. Maybe Chan was about to vomit . W ho knows. 

“You’re  definitely tipsy  man, you doing good?” Minho reached a hand out to hold his shoulder but Chan swatted it away. 

“I’m fine! God you’re so annoying..,” His words were slurred and muffled. He groaned, scrunching his eyes shut. Why was everything so loud? He felt like he could hear if a pin dropped right now. 

“...I’m annoying?” Chan’s drunk brain  took a second to register the hurt in Minho’s voice, and when it did, he froze, mind working overtime on how he was going to fix this one. 

“No, I mean- god what do I mean – you're always so nice and kind and good looking that it’s annoying.” 

The corner of Minho’s lips quirked up.

There was a pause and Chan’s blood ran cold.  Maybe that was a little too much information.

“What was that last one?”

“Nothing! Nothing, I just— I’m just drunk you know — “ Chan made a circle motion next to his temple, teeth tugging at his lip with nerves.

Minho’s hand was prying the cup from his hand and Chan was letting him. “ _Chan_.” He swore he felt his heart stop in his chest at the look in Minho’s eyes. “We both know you’re not drunk enough to say things like that without meaning it.” 

Was it just him or was Minho getting closer to him than he was before? Chan swallowed, one his hands bracing himself against the wall behind him. “And what are you  gonna  do about it?” 

Minho had the audacity to look surprised for a moment, before it changed into something terrifyingly sincere. “Can I... kiss you —?”

“Yes.” The word left Chan’s lips before the other had even finished the question. 

Minho fixed him with one of his fond smiles and Chan felt his heart melting for the hundredth time this week. In a blink, Minho’s hand was cupping his cheek in a motion that felt all too intimate. He leaned in and Chan closed his eyes, tilting his head forward. 

The moment their lips  collided,  Chan felt his chest erupt in fireworks. It was sweet but it was urgent and Minho tasted like honey. He felt Minho’s hand curve around the back of his neck, Chan’s fluttering to rest on the back of his head, tangling in his hair and pulling him closer. The kiss was everything he’d expected it to be and more. Chan bit at Minho’s lip, harsher than he’d intended, and he tasted the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. Minho didn’t protest though, instead pulling him deeper into the kiss.

A fire began to burn in his stomach, hot and heavy. Like, _really_ hot. Searing heat. Suddenly, Chan felt like he was burning, veins alight with flame. He pressed his hands against Minho’s chest, pushing him away. 

He caught the worried look Minho gave him as his back hit the wall behind him. “Chan? Are you okay? I’m sorry if I came on too fast —  “ Chan  waved a hand, silencing him. He shed his jacket, pulling his shirt out of his waistband. 

“Hot. Really hot.” He slid down the wall until he was sitting, back of his head pressed against it. 

Minho’s brows furrowed as he knelt down to press a hand against Chan’s forehead. “Hot? Did someone slip you something?”  

Chan shook his head, eyes falling shut. He had watched the bartender pour every one of his beers and never once did the cup leave his hands. 

“Hey, stay with me, okay?” Minho sounded legitimately worried. Chan nodded but a sudden groan of pain escaped him. His limbs suddenly felt achingly cold, like ice was eating at his bones from the inside out. He threw his head against the wall, scrunching his eyes shut in a grimace. 

“Chan? Hey, look at me.” He managed to pull his eyes open at the sound of Minho’s voice. “I’m  gonna  do something real fast okay? I promise you’ll feel better.” That sounded very sketchy but Chan was in no place to resist. He managed a nod, a hoarse groan escaping him. Minho looked down the hall, and, seeing no one paying attention, he pressed a hand against Chan’s clammy forehead. 

He muttered something Chan couldn’t hear over the music, something that sounded  suspiciously  like Latin. 

The last thing Chan saw before his vision went black was a familiar tuft of orange hair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was a very long time coming!!!!! hopefully the next update will be a lot sooner than last time!!! thank u for sticking with me though, if you're reading this

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to see more of this, the best way to do it is with comments!!! i survive off feedback


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